


Muse

by Mad_Merry



Category: Assassin's Creed, inFAMOUS: Second Son
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 01:03:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7737028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Merry/pseuds/Mad_Merry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Muse<br/>myo͞oz<br/>noun<br/>a woman, or a force, who is the source of inspiration for a creative artist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muse

**Author's Note:**

> I CAN /EXPLAIN/

Desmond was quickly becoming his favorite thing to draw.

Granted he had alot of favorites;  Rough sketches of Eugene slouched forward, eyes focused on empty space with a controller in his hand. Fetch stretched out in the sun like a pleased cat, eyes closed and hair splayed wherever it’d go in a wild wave. Reggie had been his figure for a long time. Catching him reading or working and being unable to not jot down each frown line, the squint of his eyes when he wasn’t wearing his contacts. Even a few of Betty lovingly smiling in the way he knows so well were inbetween pages. They were all impulsive and expressive drawings that he adored.

There was just something about Desmond that was hard to resist, and harder to capture. A mystery lying right in front of the beanie-bearer at all times that drove him crazy in the best way. Drawing Desmond wasn’t the hard part, the artist reveled in every curve and slope he set onto blank paper, watching the canvas turn into his boyfriend in every shape and form.

Smiling, sleeping, lost in thought and even looking straight at the conduit through white paper. Delsin treasured every single one, like he did all the pieces of his loved ones.

But if Delsin looked closely, sometimes he could see something else. Something distant, and off in the olders’ penciled eyes, in his posture that at the moment he assumed was relaxed. 

Closer though it looked...resigned. Tired.

As if there was an invisible weight on the others’ shoulders that when out of sight, came crashing down and made him look so downtrodden. It wasn’t in every piece, but in enough that made Delsin stop and really look, hesitate in his security of who Desmond really was.

It reminded him he really didn’t know much about the male. Least not in the way his brother told him he should know him. He knows his favorite food, his favorite color, knew what his bed head looked like and that he wheezed when he laughed ridiculously hard.

But he didn’t know Desmond outside of their relationship. He didn’t know why Desmond came from New York to Seattle, didn’t know why he flinched at certain words. Why his arm was damaged and tender. Why sometimes he spoke in an entirely different language and got confused by it.

Didn’t know why he was hiding so much sadness.

He wondered why after everything, Desmond wouldn’t share what was bothering him with the conduit. 

Dark brown eyes skim over the figure in front of them with those thoughts swirling steadily, taking in the way Desmonds’ shirt has ridden up his back, exposing the lining of his boxers due to his baggy pants. They had an impromptu nap after lunch, Desmond having only claimed wanting to lie down and swiftly passing out with his arms wound around the conduits middle.

Usually in that moment, Delsin would retrace those slopes and angles with his pencil, let the silence turn into the steady scratch of graphite against paper and smile at Desmonds’ smushed cheeks. It was peaceful, something that put his mind at ease.

But this time, the urge to touch is stronger. He at first simply keeps a ghosts’ caress along Desmonds’ shoulder, trailing down to his arm and lingering over the stark black ink that stains the entirety of his arm, skimming down his side.

He finds scars he’s never seen before on the others’ hip, pale little flicks from life, a few bigger ones that seem newer, fresher in their color, a stroke of concern running through Delsin as he follows a wicked one until its broken by the band of Desmonds’ briefs. Another mystery that the conduit can’t help but dwell on, what its origin was and why it seemed so _new_. Knuckles gently dig into the dip of his spine, eyes snapping upwards to watch the others’ face go slack, a scowl Delsin didn’t notice vanishing.

That’s all the encouragement Delsin needs to continue, rubbing up and down Desmonds’ back in a steady pattern, pressing the heel of his hand along the others’ spine every now and then, watching him sink deeper into the mattress.

Delsin never realized how tightly wound Desmond actually was, frowning slightly at every knot his hands came upon, moving up back towards the others’ shoulders and working those into the same loose state. By the end of the accidental massage, Delsin is practically on top of him, thumbs digging into the curve of his lower back and earning a content sound in return.

“You are _so_ not asleep.” The tone is teasing, snorting when one of Desmond’s eyes open, golden brown glittering with dreary mischief. Ass.

“Damn, foiled again.” Delsin doesn’t stop, a sense of accomplishment at the small little hitches of Desmonds’ breath now, eye closing again to revel in the treatment with absolute blind trust. _Trust._ How much trust? Enough to let the conduit sit there on him, run calloused hands along his scar speckled back, but not enough to tell him where they came from? 

Why he sleeps like he’s ready to bolt at any moment. Why he feels like he knows his lover yet doesn’t at the same time. His hands falter now, running downwards until he reaches the curve of Desmonds’ spine and stops there. 

“Des?”

“Hmm.”

His heart jumps in his throat as he hesitates, Desmond lying still beneath him and waiting. Patient. Or still drifting in and out, sometimes it was hard to tell. He wondered what his limit would be; what could he ask? What could he delve into and discover? What would Desmond dare to tell him, what would he hide? 

Who was he before Delsin? And did Delsin even want to _know_ that man?

“...You should let me draw you nude one day.” Desmond jostles him slightly when he starts laughing, the conduits smile weak in return. He’s thankful the other can’t see, stomach heavy with his own cowardice. The regret is strong, but how better would it have been to fill the male with more tension? To watch his face screw back into that scowl in the name of his curiosity, watch the walls around his vulnerability get hastily rebuilt? He moves off when Desmond starts to shift, turning onto his back and exposing his stomach, arms behind his head and the smirk Delsins grown to know and love strong.

“Well I’m not a french girl, but I could try my best.” That gets a more genuine smile out of the artist, a scoff following as he crawls back over Desmond, hands on either side of his head. Golden brown, lit with amusement and soft with affection, focused solely on him.

With how alive they seem, you almost wouldn’t see the bags below them. 

“You’re better than a french girl.”

He tries so hard not to dwell on it, leaning down to kiss Desmond. The response is eager, warm scarred lips moving with his own and an undamaged hand tangling into his hair. It’s easy to forget things this way, to let himself get enveloped in everything Desmond, let the slightly taller flip them over and wrap his legs around a narrow waist. 

They finally part for air, Desmonds’ focus going to the rebels’ neck as he catches his breath, hooded eyes taking in the old water stains on their ceiling.

“You wanna know something?” Delsin starts, waiting for a hummed response before he continues. “You’re kind of like my muse.”

 He remembered the definition vaguely from high school. A force of some kind, mostly personified as a woman acts as inspiration to the artist. That’s what Desmond was, an unexpected force. A painting never to be entirely understood, an artists’ blessing and curse with his mystery. You desperately want to know what the look in his eyes mean, whether his posture is deceiving or honest.

And in the process of trying to unwrap him, you fall in love. 

“Like the Mona Lisa, except hotter.” Desmond pulls away at that to raise a brow at Delsin, snickering when the conduit pulls him back down for another kiss, melding into soft pecks and softer sounds between them, socked feet digging into the bartenders back to keep them close. 

Maybe one day Delsin will be able to ask those forbidden questions, when he stops being afraid of whatever answers he may be given, when the clouds in Desmonds’ eyes become too much to look at through the translation of grey on white. 

But for now, he’s content this way. With Desmond as his layered muse, a question to be answered in time and warm hands cupping his face.

He can live like that, he’s pretty sure.

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of an apology to you guys/gift to a friend.  
> I know I kind of dropped off the face of the earth, but if you knew the past year (and a half?) I've had you'd be like 'shit son'  
> But yeah, productivity will be up from this point on, and I swear I'm intending to update Discovering Passions.


End file.
